


Born Again

by grayergray



Category: Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Origin Story, Other, Punisher - Freeform, Rachel Alves - Freeform, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 07:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3372635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayergray/pseuds/grayergray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2013 Rachel Alves' life took a turn for the worse; on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, her entire family and social circle was wiped out. Something returned to her that day, known only as the Voice. </p><p>Meant to mimic the style of the 2004 Punisher: Born series, this fic gives insight into the birth of the LA Punisher, Rachel Alves, the only apprentice Frank has ever fully succeeded with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

** Chapter 1 **

                It's 2010, we're in Iraq and I couldn't be happier. My name is Cheryl McCann and I'm living the dream; I'm living up to the Right of passage that's been part of my family since Revolutionary times.

                My name is Cheryl McCann, and I am a Marine. The latest in a long line of McCann Marines. My two brothers are Marines, my father was a Marine in the first Gulf War. Grandpa fought in 'Nam; his father in World War Two. Of course, my mom and grandmothers were part of the service too, but they weren't Marines. Mom was a lieutenant in the army; great grandma Rose was a British code breaker, but I am a Marine.

                And so are all my sisters.

                There are twelve of us in the First Engagement Team, FET. A pilot project to, the brass say. We're gonna show the boys in Washington that being a Marine supersedes gender, and that just because we're women does not mean we can't fight and die for our country. We come from all over, but most of us have the same story; we're all daughters of Marines. A few are even married to Marines!

                Except for the Sergeant. Rachel Cole's father was a member of one of those three letter government groups. Her fiancée is a trauma surgeon in New York. She graduated third from West Point, one of the youngest women to do so ever, and was recruited for the sniper program. Her first two tours of Iraq she was with an all male team working as a sniper on missions we all know better than to ask about. The way she tells the story when they were putting together an all female team she put her name in and it was just luck of the draw; the way base command talk about it, they picked her, just like the rest of us, because even if we don't come back alive, we'll be great PR stories.

                I've been around people who love war before, but none as much as Cole. She's tough, even for a Marine, and when you watch her suit up, it's like she comes alive. She smiles, but not the crazy smile of someone lost in the love of blood, but of someone whose doing what they were put on this planet to do.

                Of course, there are ten other women, including a sister from the Bronx who claims that her grandfather was part of the Tuskeegee Airmen, a Latina who jokes she was trying to find the unemployment line when she signed up and a Texan  who, before she signed up, was Miss Texas and third runner up for the Miss America title. More important than our differences, though, are our similarities.

                "You've gotta be shitting me," Maria, the So Cal Latina with two kids and a husband at home, laughed. "You miss you're -privacy-? I live in a 500 square foot apartment with three boys; this shit is paradise!"

                We all laugh, the sergeant even cracks a smile as she throws down two cards and is given two more in return.

                "Listen, not all of us got to live in palaces," she smirks as I pass, holding my carts steady and checking my bid. The bid goes to dealer, the Texan who eyes me then Cole.

                "Aren't you from Virginia? You're entire family works for the government - "

                "Yeah," she said, her lips cracking into a generous smile beguiling her cunning and skill as a Marine. "My brother works for the NSA; he told me all about Lorenz' apartment. That's how I know. "

                There are varied curses, slurs which, if anyone else said them to any of us, we'd all be jumping up with backs bristled like a group of wild animals, but because they're said in friends, we just laugh. Maria throws down her cards and throws an empty water bottle at Cole, who blocks it.

                "He's just sick of that milk toast, WASP government issue Stepford wide of his."

                "Oh!" Cole laughs, her hair is red and it catches the light as she does. "So you've met my sister in law?"

                We all dissolve into laughter. If the folks back home could see us now, playing poker, busting each other's chops, just being... people. I promise you, the men's barracks aren't any different than ours. With the possible exception of smell.

                Hands are drawn and played, pieces of plastic which stand in for real money none of us, except maybe Cole and Tex have, get passed back and forth, but when everything's said and done the game will end before there's a clear winner and the plastic chips will get put back in a metal case and the debts washed clean with them. We're sisters, stuck in a strange, foreign land; we do what do we need to in order to pass the time, waiting for our turn on the sat com line to speak to our loved ones.

                "Cole! You've got a call," the gruff voice of a male officer calls from outside and, I shit you not, the Sergeant gets up and bounds to the door with all the excitement of a 15 year old girl being called to answer the phone when expecting her crush du jour.

                "The only time you'll ever see a Marine skip like a cheerleader," Tex laughs and we all join in. We all know that we look the same as the Sergeant when our loved ones are on the other end, and we know that our male counter parts don't look much different.

                The big deal is that it's Serg; if you'd ever seen her in action, you'd understand why. In battle, Cole is a cold, bad mother who can reign death on an entire village if she had to. This is a woman with a spine of iron, a will of steel and a heart of ice which froze the second she put her helmet on.

                Twenty minutes later Cole returns, flush cheeked and beaming, carrying a canvas bag. She must have taken the mail bag on her way through.

                "Hey look! It's Santa broad!"

                She goes through the packages; Tex has a wad of fan letters from men both in and out of the service, and at least one marriage proposal. She reads the most salacious and hilarious ones out loud, her accent changing as she looks at the zip codes on each letter.  "When I marry you, sweetheart, you'll get to retire from the Marines and be a stay at home mom on my ..." she pauses, narrowing her eyes to read the chicken scrawl. "I think it's eleven... eleven hundred acre dude ranch in Montana." She sticks her tongue out and makes a gagging noise. "How come all these yokles think that I wanna git married, have a litter o' kids and live on a fuckin horse farm!?" She laughed. "I'm gonna be the first female president of the United States!"

                We all laugh and someone mentions Hilary Clinton, another Sarah Palin. Even whispers of Michelle Obama. We all decide that since it took this long for the Military Brass to figure out we're good enough to die on the front lines with the rest of them, it might be a bit longer before the folks at home are convinced that a woman can lead them... regardless of what Tex says.

                Cole drops a large box with a candy logo on the side of it beside Maria and she smirks.

                "I thought Mexicans were predisposed to diabetes, you sure that an _entire case_ of candy bars is a good idea?"

                "Loco bitch," Maria opens the case. "This isn't just for me. My cousin sent it; she got the idea from a Canadian she worked with. They give things out to the kids in the towns they patrol."

                "Like buying their loyalty?"

                "No, just ... well, yeah, I guess," she said, tearing into a bar and biting into it. "Quality control."

                It's more of the same as we have down time, with the girls catting and chatting with each other. We're up on patrol tomorrow, so when the sun starts to set and the dry heat of the dessert begins to dissipate, giving way to the bitter coldness of night.

                I'm outside, leaning against the barrack, enjoying my last smoke before turning in for the night as I see Cole coming back from the shower. I watch her, and I'm reminded of the way my dad and oldest brother walk when they think no one is watching. She walks with her shoulders squared, her head held high, and a long stride. In short, Cole walks like she owns the entire world, and we're all too dumb to have realised it yet.

                "Those things'll kill ya," her voice breaks the silence of the night while off in the distance gun fire strafes the air.

                "Yea," I say, taking my last drag and pushing the stub into a pail full of sand and cigarette butts while the poisonous smoke curls in my lungs. "Because that's my biggest worry right now." The pale blue smoke blows out my nose leaving a familiar burn in the back of my throat and sinuses as I go. "Lung cancer."

                She understands the sarcasm, and the truth behind it, and we share an uneasy laugh at the truth of the situation. Statistically; only four of our team will survive to be old enough to get lung cancer.

                I must have let the concern cross my face because Cole puts her hand on my shoulder and I feel the cold fire steel of her grip giving me a solid shake which goes straight to my core, her eyes meeting mine. "Hey," she says, the short, single syllable meant to bring me back to reality. "This is my third time on the merry go round; most of the guys I served with are still alive too." I know she's lying, she knows it too, but still. It's the thought that counts.

                She brings me in for a hug and I smell her, clean skin, fresh hair and the faintest hint of vanilla; we don't wear deodorant or scented body sprays, but every now and then one of us will break rank and no one will turn eye. By the time we suit up in our well worn body armour tomorrow, the sweet scent will be gone. There's an awkward moment when I know the hug should end, but I want it to continue, I don't ever want to let go.

                She backs up and claps my shoulder, opening the door. It's time to turn in. We're to be on the humvees before day break.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2

** Chapter 2 **

                Morning comes far too early, with the electronic screech of an alarm somewhere in our barrack travelling through the thin walls of our little semi permanent structures. Mess won't open for another two hours, so we're on MREs, protein bars and some instant coffee from Sergeant's supply.

                We're split between two vehicles, Tex, Maria and I are all in one, along with two others.

                                We roll out and I'm not quite finished my "meal," a disgusting mix of barely palatable, over salted, under cooked food. I'm not too disappointed to leave it behind, only a little worried that I hadn't been able to consume enough for the run. These patrols are only supposed to last a few hours, but you can't count on that.

                Any number of things can go wrong; it can be something simple like getting a flat tire, or something serious like a fire fight or an IED. Better safe than sorry, they always said. We each carried a few bottles of water and a protein bar, just in case, but I'd rather eat the MRE than the chaulky goo pressed into the rough shape of a turd.

                "Hey, gimme one of those candy bars," Tex said, eyeing the small bag that Maria had smuggled into the Humvee.

                There's a bit of a squabble and finally it's resolved when Cole says enough. It only takes one word and the jovial, sorority atmosphere which was still lingering from the previous night. The sound is a rough, hoarse bark, with none of the beauty, charm or beguiling humour which had informed her communications the previous day.

                Like I said, when the helmet goes on, Cole goes from hot to cold.

                Tex and Maria hesitate for a heart beat more before Maria gives Tex a candy bar and the beauty queen stashes it away, too embarrassed to bite into it under the scrutinising gaze of the Sergeant. I'm in the driver's seat, and I can see Cole in my rear view, some might expect her to flash me a conspiratorial grin, showing that the vibrant woman who nearly knocked down a wall to answer her fiancée's phone call last night was still in there.

                I was expecting that.

                I was disappointed.

                We hit the small town and do a sight lap before dismounting. Sure enough, Maria's idea to bring the candy bars was genius; the kids are flocking to her and she can't hand them out fast enough. Cole chats to a few of the mothers; she's one of the few who speak Farsi well enough to communicate with the rural women.

                She asks if anything has changed; she asks if their wells are still full. Are they hungry? When the hijab clad woman with a baby in her arms, a toddler clinking to her veil and the tell tale bump of a new pregnancy underneath nods, Cole takes out a small package I recognise. Either she stole an extra ration from the base, or more likely, she skipped breakfast and is giving it to the woman.

                This is the biggest part of our job; other than not getting shot of course. We're a PR stunt, not just for the folks at home with their Big Macs, But Light and blue jeans. Anyone who's done volunteer work with victim services know that women who are the victims of abuse or violence have an easier time speaking to other women, even if they're wearing the same uniform as the people who attacked them.

                Maria, who is a nurse and a mid night med student at home, helps tend to a few broken bones, a kid who heard something over head and thought it was a plane coming to bomb them had jumped from a second story window and broke his leg. She sets his bone and puts a splint on it while Cole acts as a translator.

                Tex and I are on look out, we never get more than five feet from the humvee; if anything looks hinky we're behind the wheel and the sixty on the roof, firing suppressing fire for the other four. It's all normal, though.

                A goat takes a shit and the smell wafts down the mud brick alley ways, thick and hot, the stale air and lack of wind doing nothing to dissipate it.

                At about eleven the ground beneath our feet rumbles with the distant, far off sound of gun fire and explosion. It isn't close enough for Tex and I to hop into action, but it is enough for Cole's head to rise up and for her to whistle to the other three.

                They approach and I climb behind the wheel. "Tex, get on the gun, McCann, on the horn; tell the other rig to head back to base. See if there's any chatter," Cole orders as we all strap in and without a word Tex, who may be the second best shot behind Cole after a life of living in a the lone star state, climbs up onto the gun. If she sees anything, she'll call down, but for now she's silent. A beautiful angel of death.

                On the horn, there isn't much; the other half of our team copies the Sergeant's command and we roll out.

                We get out of the city and leave it on the horizon behind us; about ten minutes out when things go bad. There is one two mile section where we have to pass two sharp rock formations. We know this is the most dangerous part of our journey, and for this reason, everyone's on the edge of their seats, and you can almost hear the holding of breaths.

                The left side of the second humvee swerves to avoid a pot hole, it's right tire hits what looks like a pile of rocks on the side of the road.

                Everything goes still and the humvee moves in slow motion. Everyone, well, everyone except Cole, gasp, and I can hear strangled sounds as they tried to twist, as if by seeing what was going on they could help.

                It was Cole's voice, once again, rough and harsh, ordering us to muster to position and get out ready for a fight, which brought us back to earth.

                “We’re under fire!” she shouts, the undisputed commander of our group and we all know why. While I freeze under the pressure and even Tex jumps, Cole is smooth as silk and moves with an unstoppable force a kin to lava; not always smooth, but nothing stands in her way.

                She reaches over my shoulder and cranks the wheel to the left, bringing our rear skidding around as I slam on the breaks. We’re weighted low, but Tex is still on the roof  gun and I hear her suck air as she crashes around up there, cursing under her breath and calling down for warning next time.

                Cole doesn’t apologies; there is no expectation she would or should. This isn’t a beauty pageant; this is war.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3

** Chapter 3 **

                Before my eyes the several thousand pound machine arches into the air and pitches onto its side, their gunner tossed from her turret. Her body flies through the air like a rag doll and lands in a heap, scrambling to her feet. The fire cracker pops of gun fire echo as the insurgents come out from the rocky outcroppings. We don’t hear any screams, we don’t expect too. The gunner landed head first on a rock and is now sitting out in the open with no cover, if she’s alive, she’s playing dead to avoid drawing any attention to herself.

Back in our crew, Cole has got Tex firing suppressing fire and sends Maria and one of the other women out to check on the other humvee. I'm to pull close, to let our rig's armoured side work as a shield for Maria and her assistant. If the gunner’s still alive, she’ll need Maria as soon as possible.

                There's a loud crash and it's too late. Both Cole and I turn to see the humvee tilted up on its side push forward before exploding under the impetus of an RPG. A wall of flame erupts from the gas tank and we hear an explosion as the pressure built to the point of explosion. There's a strangled, painful scream from Maria as a piece of shrapnel takes her in the side, pinning her to the sand.

                Her body lays prone, under the other Marine, a woman from North Dakota named Hannah George; she was a solid soldier and a good friend. She had a kid in grade school and a husband who was a state police officer. George's body took the brunt of the blast, shrapnel from the humvee shooting out at odd angles, as well as frag from the grenade itself.

                "Fuck," the muttered curse of the low voice of our officer echoes in my ear behind me. I hear Cole's restraints unclip and she and the other Marine are out the door just as Tex kicks me in the shoulder to hand her more ammo. I'm on it and I hand it to her and when I've got that handed off, I grab my rifle.

                "The fuck are you doing, McCann!?" I hear Tex shouting at me, putting her boot on my strap. "Get on the horn; Cole and Alberts can grab Lorenz and George," she said, her Texas Rose voice gravelly as she tried in vain to remain in control of her gag reflex.

                I nod and call back to base, tell them exactly what's happened, that we're done one humvee, total casualties six as of now with two more possible; I tell the men at dispatch that we're down but our rig is still mobile. They ask if we know how many are involved, and I pass the question on to Tex on the gun.

                "I've caught eight of the fuckers so far," she shouts down. She fires again. "Make it nine." She is a beautiful angel of death, I think to myself once more. If only those three women who finished in front of her at the Miss America pageant and the judges could see her now, all fire and Hell, not a lick of make up but still beautiful. This, I think to myself, this is what Miss America looks like; dirt smudged and firing a sixty.

                She was right, of course; if anyone could get us through this, it was going to Cole. I see her pause as she takes a knee next to Maria, testing for a pulse. The other woman is a write off, but we need to bring her back; even if she's dying she's still one of us. She'd do the same. Alberts brings George back to the Humvee and Tex picks off one of the men, his grenade launcher falling down the rocky out cropping.

                In real time, this all took less than five minutes, but for those of us who were part of the fight, it felt like a life time.

                By the time Cole and Alberts got to the others, they were both starting to move, though neither were able to get to their feet. Tex was doing a good job with the suppressing fire, but there must have been an insurgent who had a good angle, because he nearly hit Alberts with a lucky shot. Cole saw him though, and dead shot that she was, two quick bursts and things were settled.

                There was a quick discussion between Maria and Cole. Alberts took George and started back to the humvee. With Maria's arm stretched over her shoulder, their rifles hanging on their backs, Cole half drags half carries her injured sister back to us and lays her in the back next to a dying George.

                "For God's sake, drive!" Cole barks at me.

                I'm on auto pilot and I needed her orders to remember what it is I'm supposed to do. I throw the truck into reverse and back away from the other rig just as the ammo takes; more pop rock explosions as small arms ammo lights, and a few more spectacular explosions as the grenades go. I've got us turned around with a pillar of fire behind us.

                The humvee shakes as I throw her into drive, the shudder running through all of us, but I know she can handle it; these transmissions are built to take serious abuse. Tex curses and kicks my shoulder, a reminder of my forgotten promise to warn her the next time I do something stupid. Fair enough. She’s firing at targets that are firing back and can’t spare any attention on what I’m doing.

                “TEX! RPG 2 o’clock!”

                “Got it!” our beauty queen gunner yells, grunting as she turns to find her target. There’s the mechanical whine of the gun moving and the ratcheting echo of firing.

                And then there’s the flash.

                The body twitches and slumps backwards, but it’s already too late; he fired his load and it’s coming right towards us.

                I gun the engine and I hear Cole screaming at me to stop, but I’m running on survival instincts and I think I know better. Cole’s pulling her belt off and screaming at me, but all I can think about is the two dying women in the back of the rig and getting them back to base. The engine’s roaring; I stomp on the clutch and shift up a gear hoping to make some speed. Anticipating the rocket, Tex drops down under the cover of the roof.

                And that’s when the rocket hits the front of the rig. Right. Dead. Fucking. Centre.

                This is it, I think. This is the end. My name is Cheryl McCann, and I’ve just killed us all.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4

** Chapter 4 **

                My pulse is a dull thud echoing in my ears combined with the high pitch whine that accompanies sufferers of tinnitus. My ears are shot, and yet, I can hear a voice calling to me as clear as if it was standing next to me.

                “Rachel,” it says, it calls my name in a voice that is both demanding and disembodied.

We’ve spoken before. When I was nine years old my grandfather had a heart attack while we were on vacation. My grandmother was in the passenger’s seat of their 1992 Dodge Spirit and managed to pull us through four lanes of traffic on I95, but when we hit the guard rail instead of busting through or stopping the car, it shot us back into traffic. It didn’t occur to her to throw the car in neutral or park, and I’m not sure that she could have even if it had.

The first hit was a midsized truck, which spun us around. Several more impacts, tossing all three of us around like rag dolls, and finally we stopped. The heart attack killed my grandfather and, according to the coroner, my grandmother suffered a massive brain hemorrhage when her head hit the side window and that’s what killed her.

Despite the bright colour of their car, I guess sometimes you just can’t stop. Dazed, I remember looking out the window and seeing the grill of a large transport truck barrelling down on me. That was the first time I heard the voice.

“Rachel,” this disembodied voice, which was neither male nor female, belonging to neither of my grandparents, spoke to me even though I’m sure at the time I was screaming inconsolably. “It’s not your time, Rachel,” it said. “You have much to do. Your life will be meaningful, if only you run right now. Get out of the car and run!”

I was 8 years old and in the habit of listening to adults, so I undid my seat belt and unlocked the door, hitting the freeway on all fours. I scrambled to my feet and I ran.

I ran until an off duty nurse picked me clean off the ground after chasing me for a couple dozen yards.

I hadn’t heard that voice in twenty years, but I was hearing it now.

“Rachel.” It called. “It’s not your time, Rachel,” it said, eerily similar to when it had called to me when I was a child. “You have much to do. Your life will be meaningful, if only you run right now. Get out of the car and run!”

It had saved my life once, and I wasn’t in the habit of arguing with success.

I was already out of my restraints and moving back, calling for the rest to follow, when the impact happened.

I was thrown forward out of the back of the Humvee, tumbling in the sand, my body curled in on itself in an attempt to minimize possible damage. When I stopped moving my hands went immediately to my gun, but I was halted by the shadow moving over my head. Half of Tex remained in the Humvee and I could see from the way the front end was crushed that even if McCann was still alive, her legs were gone. I tried not to think about the two injured Marines who had been lying loose in the back and focussed on getting to my feet.

There was more pop fire; I guess they saw me.

There’s a small crag in the rock, not large but just big enough that I can get out of their direct line of fire until they circle around. Good enough for now, I think to myself, making a b line to the crack and diving into it. The width of my body armour almost makes my torso wedge between the unforgiving and jagged slabs of stone, but I don’t care.

The rig is a smoldering hunk of metal, if there’s anyone still alive inside, I pity them. Training and dogma would have me go back and get them, no man, or woman in this case, left behind, but the fire has me pressed back. By the time I get some supressing fire at the insurgents, the fire in the Humvee will have spread and they’ll all be dead, or wishing they were.

I count fire from at least six different spots. All around me there are voices screaming in Farsi, McCann is still alive, I can see her twisted face in the shatter resistant glass of the Humvee. The whole front end is pinning her in place; if I could get to her and move her, it would only cause her to die faster. She screams, the sound of nightmares, and I beg that one of them puts a bullet in her to end her suffering but they don’t.

They want her to scream. They think it’ll drive me out of my hiding hole to rescue her, or at least end her suffering.

“You can survive this,” the voice tells me as my head clears a little. “You can walk away from all of this, go home to your fiancee and get married.” And right now I’m just about ready to make a deal with the devil if it’ll shut Cindy up.

“Just give in,” the voice says. I close my eyes and the world goes black and the screeching, whining whistle of nothingness envelopes me.

I’ve been hit, I think. They circled around faster than I had thought and got me before I even knew it. I was wrong.

“You can survive this. Just say okay.”

“Okay.”

I don’t remember thinking about what happened next; I was a passenger in my own body. The voice was in control, resolute and without fear it reigned in my adrenaline soaked body and pulled me back from the edge of nothing.

Time stands still, and then it all goes red.

When the evac unit shows up the Humvee is a smouldering burnt out shell with McCann’s charred corpse grinning a macabre welcome to the medics and MPs who come to extract her and the four other members of my team.

“Jesus Christ,” one of the Marines hisses through his teeth as he runs towards me from the chopper. “Cole! Cole is that you!?” He’s standing no more than three feet away from me but he might as well be three miles.

They load me up onto the chopper like a china doll, men who I’ve served with for close to a year looking at me like I’m broken, and it isn’t until I look over the edge of the floor on the scene below. I had thought I had counted eight different points of fire, but somehow there are close to two dozen bodies clad in the rough muslin cloth of the insurgents. One man is missing his head; another looks like he had his jaw kicked in by a horse and it dawned on me…

They aren’t treating me like this because they think I’m broken – they’re treating me like this, keeping their distance, because that scene down there, the twenty four bodies, some missing arms, heads, lower jaws? I did that. I took out twenty four heavily armed insurgents.

And I don’t remember it.

I go cold inside, despite the fact that I’m just drenched with sweat.

“You survived Rachel; you were the only survivor. Enjoy it. Enjoy life while it lasts, because there will be costs to your survival. Everything has a cost.”

I spend four months in a military hospital. They stabilize me in country, then fly me to Germany. It’s October before I get back to the States. During this time I don’t hear the voice and convince myself that it wasn’t real, that it was just my imagination.

The shrink tells me the same thing; given the circumstances, it’s only natural, they say. My commanders set me up for medals and I’m given a few new pieces of tin for my chest while the families of the women I served with are given eleven steel caskets and flags.

They call me a hero. I shake Colonel McCann’s hand as his wife wipes away tears; he tells me his daughter was excited to serve on the FET and that he wasn’t ashamed that she gave her life “serving her country.” Her brothers salute me because I out rank them.

Days turn into weeks turn into months and I still don’t hear the voice.

Because of the trauma I suffered I’m not made to go back out, I’m given a rather easy ride at a Marine training base in upstate New York. The newspapers make a big deal about my story, but soon enough the latest celebutante DUI knocks me from the front page and I’m anonymous again.

At the back of a church in Queens I’m waiting, dressed in head to toe white. My sister stands on my left in a dark blue dress and helps me fix my veil as my father holds my hands on the right. It’s my wedding day; I’m about to leave behind the life of Sergeant Rachel Cole and become Missus Rachel Alves.

The organ starts playing signalling my entrance and I smile, a broad, genuine smile as I see Daniel, tall and handsome in his tuxedo. My father smiles at me and my hands transfer from the man who raised me to the man who’s going to marry me and I freeze.

Time stops.

“Rachel.”

The voice is back.

“Remember when I said there would be a cost?”


End file.
